Dog Poet Transmitting.......
‘May your noses always be cold and wet’
Well, we’re back in the doldrums of the false Sea of Tranquility, near the Whores Latitudes and the boats are being pulled by whores, who spend their time dreaming about less arduous employment in the alleys near the dumpsters, where they used to ply their trade. Occasionally they are roused from their reverie by a cry of, “Put yer backs into it ye scum, or yer’ll feel the lash!” In former times they got paid extra for the lash bit. They’re already familiar with putting their backs and their fronts into it, behind the emotionless and routine thrusts upward, moving in the opposite direction of the heart’s desire and making a mockery of passion due to the lack of it. Sure, some of them like the work but they’re either new or think they’re in love.
You know these whores. They are the ordinary workers in the foundries of Purgatory, who do the bidding of their betters, who are also whores and also feel the lash but mostly they get that super-heated breath on the backs of their necks, which for some reason turns immediately into a cold chill at the nape. ‘Whores to the right of me, whores to the left of me, into the bordellos of Babylon marched the countless and forgotten’.
The stock market went up and down and up and down like the whores and they have led us to another respite of false industrials without industry, save for the manipulated numbers of Goldman Sachs. Engineered riots went off in the UK and then they faded away for another day. Were they manipulated? It’s never all of one or none of the other. It’s complicated; like my supposedly being a member of the illuminati because I’ve got some kind of identifiable symbols on my blogs. I can’t find them but maybe I’m not supposed to see them. I can’t find my decoder ring either and I’m all out of secret handshakes. I know if I were a real mover and shaker, I’d have something to move and shake but all I’ve got is my ass and some natural rhythm. I’ll tell you this, if I’m deep cover then it’s got to be plenty deep, like a certain other substance that I see too much of these days.
Whores are whores because they are wide open to the wounded armies of the world for the coin of the realm, losing the gold within and making counterfeit with everything else. Dumb whores are the ones with all the answers based on zero research and the capacity to swallow anything they are told, which may be how you become a whore in the first place. You can’t reason with the unreasonable and I don’t try. There are some numbers of people who are out to change the world that generally sidestep the absolute necessity of changing themselves first. They know right and wrong when they see it and their next step is always to enforce it. Social reformers are the greatest mass murders on the planet and it’s either gold or some twisted religious perspective that’s behind it; let’s not forget the drive to self importance while we are at it.
Whores generally need as much cosmetics as a Kabuki dancer and that is because the inner beauty took off with the inner gold and now they are bankrupt in every way that counts and pissed off without knowing why and that accounts for all the poisoned fucks they dispense so that old and out of shape white men can get laid too. It’s a cosmic dynamic that when you’ve squandered everything that would have made you attractive at any age to any age that you have to pay for dissatisfying moments of personal embarrassment, just as you have to pay for everything else and that’s why there’s so much focus on money and position. For some reason, the position isn’t all that important because they keep getting nailed for their indiscretions, mostly because they go around trumpeting that kind of thing as an indiscretion, when it’s nothing more than human weakness in search of something lasting that they didn’t have the time or integrity to perpetuate for long enough for it to appear.
You’ve got whores with calculating machines, where the numbers run in the places where their eyes used to be and you’ve got whores with guns who kill for the Hell Bitch of patriotism or under the directive of an old white guy in the sky, with bilious attitude, who is probably sitting on a hemorrhoid pillow and who lets you know in no uncertain words that sex is a sin but that murder is a blessed calling. I don’t know about this particular version of God. He didn’t look like that when I met him and he didn’t act like that either. I suppose there’s a tailor-made god for all of us, who is designed to meet the requirements of our demands upon he, she or it. You’ve got whores with scepters and whores with swagger sticks and they can often be reformed whores who forgot what they used to be and now they’ve raised self righteousness to an art form. There are all kinds of whores but only one kind of client who slips in and out of the bodies of the ones performing.
It must be early morning now and the whores have gone to bed. Hmmm... that doesn’t sound right. It must be earlier morning now and the whores have retired for the night to sleep in their coffins, until that disinfecting sun has gone over the yardarm; “I said, put your backs into it bitches or you’ll wish you had!” So, maybe they are sleeping and maybe they are not. They’re dreaming in any case and so it’s all quiet for a little while again. Maybe it will just go on and on. I’ve been told that I’m dreaming when I say that our tormentors are going to get theirs soon enough. I’m told they’re too powerful and won’t be moved and that it’s just a fantasy. We’ll see.
I’m surrounded by whores in degrees of perversity. Some of them are fine upstanding whores who toe the legal and corporate line. They raise their kids to be virtuous whores, who only engage in the horizontal hula with approved suitors. They want to keep that whore breeding line intact. I’ve been told there’s no way to avoid participation in the world’s oldest profession but that always comes from people who’ve been compromised and can’t stand the idea that someone might get around it and give it away for free.
I suppose there’s nothing wrong with being a whore if you’re okay with it. The world is full of powerful and famous whores who live high above the sidewalks where the common whores are employed. They travel anywhere and they are seen everywhere, whoring it up, whoring it up to beat the band and then they do the band too. They got all that jingly whore accoutrements on their wrists and fingers. They got expensive whore suits, so you can tell which whore made it and they got whore unguents and whore perfumes that send out the signals for the pheromone patrol. They got whore handbags, made by foreign whores, so that they can carry around the tools of their trade for when they need them and they’ve got the whores bath for when they’re in a hurry and the next client is waiting. Now they’ve even got tan spray artist whores who can make a whore too busy to get to the beach look like they just came back from one.
People would be a lot better off if they studied whore composition and understood the components of the practice. Closer inquiry would reveal what is present and what is missing and that would clarify the question of value given for value received. It mostly comes down to what you have and don’t have that defines what you are. Not having something says something and having something says something too. In some cases you’re going to have to do without all that exciting whore attention and in the other case you’ll be getting all you can handle, depending on your shelf life and your due date. The reason they call the whores that can’t work anymore, “dried up old whores” is because they burn better at that consistency. I can’t believe I said that but I’m going with the flow.
Of course, someone’s going to come along and tell me I have no right to disparage whores and they’re going to let me know that some random act of fortune put them in Tess of the d'urbervilles-land and that it was probably faithless lovers that made them the character in Of Human Bondage. They’ll tell me that we’re all where we are as a result of cruel and incomprehensive fate but my thinking is that we walked to wherever under our own power and that there’s more to the story than the details of any particular life. Of course, this is something I know and won’t bother to explain because you either know this too or you got some other explanation for it that fits in with how you like to have your version of things operate, up to the point where your version of things encounters reality but obviously we’re not there yet (grin).
If I’ve been too hard on the whores today I could say they probably prefer that to you’re not being capable of performing in the acts you are paying them to do. I’ll add that pimps are simply ‘whores in waiting’, as are the customers they are engaging, lest you think I wasn’t in consideration of the whole area of engagement. They switch off every time they go in and out of the wardrobe department, the same way all those committing any offense against another are already in waiting for a taste of the same when the time comes around for it. The high and mighty are only a few short steps from the low and powerless, though that all has to do with how you measure time. Some of us getting that wider angle lens the further back we step out of the field of play. We remain in these areas of contact and activity for as long as we feel we have good reason to and some of us have been at it for a long, long time.
As I said... things are quiet at the moment and those behind conditions and events and... that which is really behind everything, no matter what the players and performers think, have got their reasons for this. One isn’t aware of the other and the other is aware of everything. I’ll leave it to you to sort out the meaning of this, as it suits what you want to believe. Quiet is a temporary affair and so is most everything else because the only dependable constant is change. Change is upon us and will appear in its own sweet time, once it’s given all the whores, pimps and customers time to conduct their business and take their curtain calls as well, unless that moment turns out to be the curtain call.
'The Bitch in the Beemer' is track no. 2 of 12 on Visible and The Critical List's 1992 album
'Not Politically Correct'
About this song (pops up)
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